


This Is The Way

by orphan_account



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Apprentice - Freeform, Backstory, Brawling, Gen, Genocide, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, Survival, This Is The Way, Worldbuilding, i have spoken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22362913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The droid that found him would have killed him, he has no doubt. It killed his parents. It had killed everyone else in his village who dared refuse to bow down at the feet of The Empire.And if it didn’t then those like it did.He had never trusted droids. And staring down the barrel of a B2 Super Battle Droid did nothing to change his mind on the matter.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	This Is The Way

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to Episode 8, so before we got the extended version of Din's childhood flashback.

The droid that found him would have killed him, he has no doubt. It killed his parents. It had killed everyone else in his village who dared refuse to bow down at the feet of The Empire. 

And if it didn’t then those like it did. 

He had never trusted droids. And staring down the barrel of a B2 Super Battle Droid did nothing to change his mind on the matter. 

The droid didn’t get a chance to add him to it's body count, though. Moments after opening the bunker where he was hidden a blaster ripped through its Tritanium frame and he shut his eyes against the sparks that flew and singed his skin. The droid fell to it’s knees, lifeless, and he’d leapt out of his hiding spot, tearing through the village toward the forest beyond. He ducked between plastered buildings now charred black with blaster fire. His short legs and bare feet carried him faster even as his mind slowed down, trying to reconcile the memory of a place he’d always known, the well at the city center, the marketplace where his mother bought meat once every cycle…with the images that blurred as he past. Fires lapping at the fabric of tents, blood staining the dirt. Hands and faces he recognized laying slack and lifeless on the ground. 

He never heard the end of the battle ( _massacre_ ), the noise was drowned out by the buzzing in his ears as he crossed the threshold of the village into the forest surrounding his home. 

He collapsed somewhere in the dirt, some time later with heaving muscles and an aching heart. Unable to form a coherent thought, he didn’t know how long he laid there, sweaty and shaking and clawing at the dirt, before he realized the buzzing had faded away and the strange noise he was hearing was the sound of his own sobs. 

Eventually those faded away too.

He has never shed a tear since. 

He fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep (it would be the last reprieve before nightmares became more common than dreams) and was woken by the Traders. 

They called themselves Traders, but they were just scavengers, they followed the empire from planet to desolated planet like vultures picking off anything that was left behind that might fetch a price. That included any survivors. 

Broken, traumatized Foundlings, it turned out, made pretty pliable slaves. 

He was sold to a Mandalorian. He was old, his Battle Days were behind him. 

_"Whats your name, boy?"_

_"Din." he'd said, lifting his chin, hoping it would hide the fear in his eyes. "Din Jarrin."_

_"Hm," The Old Mandalorian made an unimpressed noise and scrubbed a hand across his beard, then pointed at a nearby animal. "Can you take care of my Bantha? Lead it?"_

_Din nodded. And, at a jerk of The Old Mandalorians head, he did so._

The Mandalorian didn't seem to care much about Din. Was never attentive or tender like his mother and father had been. But he taught him about respect. About The Way. He gave him something to cling to. Something to believe in. And the world seemed to stop spinning quite so fast under his feet. 

He taught Din how to clean his armor, and Din found he stood a little steadier. 

He instructed him in the right and wrong way to shoot a blaster, and Din's mind grew a little quieter. 

On the day the Old Mandalorian died, Din was not yet in his 16th year. He didn’t cry, but the empty spot at the dinner table ripped a hole open in his chest he’d been careful not to touch since that day in the forest. He stood up and walked out of the house, never to return. 

His first bounty was small, and bringing it in had been more of an accident than anything. But the rush of pride he felt when the credits were pushed across the table to him stayed with him for days. He spent every credit within half a cycle. He ate and drank and drank and drank. He laughed, got into fights and eventually was thrown out of the cantina. 

When he woke up in the alley at high sun the next day he stumbled back inside. Before he could order anything (he would just have been thrown out again, he had spent everything he had) the man on the stool next to him slid him a puck. 

He turned the puck over and over in his hands that night, looked at the holo image in the light of the fire. It was a test. An invitation. Do this, bring in this bounty, and he was in The Guild. For the rest of his life he would never have to worry about where his next meal would come from or, more importantly, the unknown dangers lurking in the dark. 

His eyes slid to the Mandalorian armor piled in a box in the corner and after a moment, he walked toward it.

Reverently, he ran his fingers over the planes and curves of the metal. The Beskar was chipped and scuffed from decades, perhaps centuries, of battle. But they were part of it, they were important. He'd learned that much from his deceased Mandalorian benefactor. The history of the armor was important. 

And it wasn't right for it to lay dusty and decaying in a box.

It wasn't the way.

Slowly, he began slipping each piece into place. Tying them over his arms and legs, then tucked the puck into his pocket. He shifted, the armor wasn't a perfect fit, not yet. But when he received his bounty he would take it to The Armorer on Arvala-7 and she would refashion it to fit him. 

Fully suited up, he pulled The Old Mandalorian's rifle over his shoulder and shoved a few knives into his boots. He glanced at himself in the reflective surface of the door and thought, rather cynically, that he wasn't particularly imposing right now. His body was mostly covered in the same worn jacket and pants he'd been wearing for weeks. He was unshaven and drowning in the slightly too large armor pieces. He wondered if someday, after he'd made a name for himself, he would be a more imposing presence. If not, well he'd make sure the Armorer used some of his bounty to create a few new weapons for him too. 

Last, he picked up the helmet. Din felt a rush of adrenaline as his thumbs rubbed back and forth across the cool metal.

He'd been young when The Old Mandalorian adopted him, impressionable. Traumatized and desperate for family. For something to believe in. The man hadn't been a father so much as a stern mentor and master. 

But he'd taught him the ways of the warriors. Told him stories of Mandalore and honor and The Way that made his heart burn. For anything he'd been _(child, refugee, slave)_ and anything he would be someday _(bounty hunter, leader, legend)_ he was, today and always, Mandalorian. 

And he knew, once he put this helmet on, there was no going back. Once it was on, it could never be removed. 

Not for fear. Not for life. Not for love. 

With a deep breath, and a small nod to himself, he lifted the object and slipped it carefully over his head. Unlike the armor, the helmet fit perfectly. 

Din smiled, feeling protected. Strong.

At peace. 

He turned and walked out the door, the bounty puck so light in his right pocket he couldn't help pressing his fingers against it every other step to make sure it was still there. 

He would join the Guild. He would use his bountys to improve his armor and fund the care of other Foundlings.

He would join his brothers in arms and one day they would restore Mandalore to it's once proud place in the galaxy. 

He wasn't a broken Foundling anymore. He was a Mandalorian. And he knew. He understood now.

This is the way. 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are welcome!


End file.
